Suave and debonair tomato plants
Gordon Grindstaff
G2
I have a sad story to tell this week about planting tomatoes, a story that began innocently enough in the late afternoon of an early spring day about 70 years ago when a nondescript pickup truck pulled up and parked on the side of the road next to the field behind Bicycle John’s house. A man got out of the truck and walked towards a group of 5 or 6 neighborhood boys, one of which was me; we were trying to get in an after-school baseball game before it got dark.
The man, a local, southwestern Indiana guy whose name I don’t remember, gathered us around him.